Rogue's Charade Page 5

“And you’ve been away all day.”

  “I’ll manage that, thank you.”

  “By telling who I am, and where I am?”

  Blythe looked up at him. No longer slouching, he seemed taller in the gathering dusk, looming over her. He had released her, and yet he was near, a threatening reminder of all she’d done this day. “You’re not going to let me go,” she said.

  Simon stretched, his arms flung out, back bent until it cracked. “Ah, that feels good. I might, princess. If...”

  “If?”

  “You give me your word you’ll not tell about me.”

  “My word! How will I explain about myself, else?”

  “You’ll think of something. Quite a liar, you are, when you’ve a mind for it.”

  “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am an honest woman.”

  “Mm-hm. But if you tell of what happened today, your reputation will be in shreds, will it not?”

  “I—” Blythe closed her mouth. On that end, he was right. Her reputation was likely in ruins already. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take, sir, for I do intend to tell everything that happened to me. Including that you forced me to cross the London Bridge.”

  “Westminster,” he corrected automatically, and then grinned at her, eyes gleaming. “London Bridge?”

  “Yes, and you mentioned heading south, did you not?”

  “Mayhaps I did.” A smile spread slowly upon his face. “An honest woman you may be, princess, but you’ve a talent for storytelling.”

  “A good enough talent?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She faced him steadily. “Will you let me go?”

  “Princess, I would never have hurt you.”

  Her eyes widened. “But—”

  “I had chances enough to do so, did I not?”

  “But there were people around, and—”

  “I am not a murderer, Blythe.”

  Blythe clamped her lips shut and looked away. Murderer or not, he was right. For all the time she had been in his company, he could have harmed her, and he hadn’t. Perhaps she had known, deep down, that he wouldn’t. “Then I am free to go?”

  “You always were, princess. But I thank you for your help.” He bowed low, sweeping off an imaginary hat with a flourish. “Now, leave, so you’ll not see where I go.”

  She had never been in danger. She could have left him anytime. “Ooh! I should proclaim to the world just who and where you are.”

  “But you won’t, princess.” He grinned. “Not after giving your word.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You will.”

  Blythe paused. “Oh, very well. I won’t reveal where you are.”

  “Good lass. And may I say, ‘tis been a pleasure sharing the road with you.” He reached for her hand, catching it before she could pull back. “It has been an honor knowing you, madam,” he murmured, and pressed his lips to her palm. They were warm, firm and dry, and their touch sent an odd tingling sensation through her arm, making her jerk away.

  “I cannot say the same,” she retorted, and turned on her heel, stalking away. She was free! She could hardly credit it, but he’d let her go. Free, and she could go on with her life as if today’s bizarre incidents had never happened. Letting herself relax for the first time in hours, she glanced back, certain that her captor would be well out of sight. Instead, he stood watching her, lips twisted in what might have been a smile, before turning away. And then, with a sudden loud grunt, he toppled to the ground.

  Chapter Four

  Blythe stood irresolute, looking first one way, toward freedom, and then back at Simon. It was a ploy, of course, to make her return to him. It had to be. Still, as she watched him struggle to his feet, old habits urged her back. She had a training of sorts in medicine. If he were hurt, she had to help him.

  Simon, still on one knee, looked up at that moment and gestured impatiently for her to go. Again she looked back toward London, and then, with a little sigh, set her shoulders and trudged toward him. “Are you hurt?”

  “Bloody hell,” he said through clenched teeth, finally getting to his feet. “I told you to go.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not to signify, no.” He turned, took a step, and promptly stumbled. All of Blythe’s healing instincts rose up. She rushed toward him, propping her shoulder under his arm. This was no trick. Good an actor though he was, surely even he couldn’t fake the way his skin, sheeny with sweat, had gone ashen.

  “Not to signify,” she mocked, staggering under his weight. “Why, you can hardly stand.”

  “‘Tis my problem.” His voice was clipped. “I told you to go. I’ll travel lighter on my own.”

  “Doubtless, but I suspect you won’t get very far. Is it your leg?”

  The glance he gave her was full of suspicion. “Yes, but ‘tis not serious. The musket ball—”

  “You were shot!”

  “—only broke the skin.”

  “Were you shot?” she demanded, wrapping her arm about his waist and guiding him to the low stone wall that edged the road. “By whom, and where?”

  Simon took another step, grimacing. “By a soldier near Tyburn.”

  “Not that kind of where, silly. Here. Sit on this wall. Whew!” She stood back as he half-collapsed, half-sat on the wall. He was a big man, tall and broad. Before when he’d leaned on her, still he’d managed to carry his own weight. Not this time, though. That made her wonder how he had ever managed to get through London, with all its soldiers and good citizens chasing him, and he injured. For the first time she felt a reluctant admiration for him. “Where on your person?”

  He looked up at her, and in spite of the strain creasing his face, actually managed a smile. “On my thigh, princess, in back and high up.” The smile widened to a grin. “Rather an intimate place.”

  She would not blush. “I see.” She nodded, taking refuge in briskness. “Well, get over behind the wall, and let’s have a look at it.”

  He gaped at her. “What?”

  “I said I’ll take a look at it.”

  “But—” For the first time since she’d met him he appeared at a loss for words, staring at her with jaw dropped. “Madam, I shall offend your modesty.”

  “You won’t be the first man I’ve seen naked,” she said shortly, and swung herself over the wall. “Here, I’ll help you. Mind your step. It’s dry here, but uneven.”

  Simon didn’t move, but continued to stare. “What did you say?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Woodley, yours will not be the first bare bottom I’ve seen. Now, are you coming, or will I have to drag you?”

  Her bluntness had the desired effect; it sent color rushing into his face, making her bite her lips to hold back a grin. For once, she had the upper hand. “Madam, your help will not be required.”

  “Nonsense, you won’t get two steps without me.”

  “I’ll manage. You don’t realize—”

  “What I’m talking about? But I assure you, I do,” she said, relenting. “My foster father is a doctor. I’ve helped him since I was quite small.”

  Simon ran a hand over his face, and she could sense his weariness, his confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Heaven knows. But if I wanted to harm you, all I would have to do now is to run to a house and tell them who and where you are.”

  “Bloody hell. You would, at that.”

  “Mayhap. Are you coming?” She thrust her head forward, but her voice had softened. “There’s really no one else, you know.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said again, staring at her, and swung his legs over the wall.

  “Careful.” She bent to him. “Here, lean on me.”

  “Like hell I will—hell!” he exclaimed, as he put his weight on his injured leg and it promptly collapsed beneath him.

  “Tch.” Again she wrapped her arm about his waist. “Such language, and this from a man who’s played Shakespeare.”

  “Shakespeare used his share of curses. There�
�s a scene in Henry V where Queen Catherine is talking to her maid—” He broke off to stare at her. “How do you know that?”

  “Near Green Park, you mentioned the seven ages of man.”

  “So I did.” He lurched again. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Away from the road. What, do you fear I’ll hurt you?”

  “You, hurt me? I am a known murderer, remember?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. What scene is that?”

  “What? Oh. Henry V.” The smile she had already learned to distrust spread across his face. “In act five. Catherine is about to meet Henry and she is asking her maid about, ah, relations.”

  “Relations?”

  “Marital relations.”

  “Oh.” She would not blush. She would not.

  “Though not in so many words,” he chattered on. “The scene is French, but I suspect people of the time knew what Shakespeare was saying. Actually, the word he used was—”

  “Never mind,” she said, hastily. “I think I’d rather not know.”

  “Tch. And you a doctor’s daughter, who’s seen her share of naked men?”

  “If I let you go, you’ll fall,” Blythe said, pleasantly, though her color was high. “I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

  “No, but you would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Actually, this is a likely enough place.” She stopped so quickly that he stumbled again. Only by grabbing at her did he stay upright. She batted his hands away. “Mr. Woodley, please! We haven’t the time for that.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “The trees will shield us from the road, and I smell water nearby. And there’s a fallen tree for you to sit upon.” Far more gently than Simon had expected she bent, letting him slump onto the log. “I’d rather there was more space, but I fear you’re too heavy for me to support for much longer.”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” he said grumpily, drawing his good leg up. “‘Tis cool. We shall light a fire.”

  “Mm, no, I think not. Anyone chasing you will see the smoke.”

  “I’d think you’d want that.”

  “After I’ve gone to so much trouble to get you here?” She glared at him, hands on hips. “You are really a most uncooperative patient.”

  “And you are a most contrary woman.”

  “So I’ve been told. Now.” She knelt beside him. “Take off your breeches.”

  “Just like that?” He smiled again. “Don’t you wish to talk first, princess, or touch—”

  “You may mock me all you want, Mr. Woodley, but I am the only person who can help you.” By dint of sheer will she kept her gaze steady on him. “Will you take off your breeches, or will I have to cut them off you?”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, turning away. “Who the hell named you Blythe?”

  “My parents. Well, sir?”

  “They were sadly mistaken as to your character. Bloody hell,” he said again, and reluctantly began to unbutton his breeches.

  Blythe glanced away, not quite as self-assured as she would have Simon think. It was true she’d helped her father tend to the ill, but the men she’d seen had mostly been old, and their private parts discreetly draped. Never had she been allowed to minister to a young man who was otherwise in the prime of health. She would not leave him, however. She could not leave anyone who was injured, no matter what he’d done. Her father’s training had been instilled too deeply in her.

  Beside her Simon was wriggling, struggling to get out of his breeches without actually having to stand. His face was averted, and it struck her for the first time that he found this as embarrassing as she was. The thought made her hide a smile. “Do you need help?”

  “No,” he bit off, and, flinging his breeches aside, settled back on the log clad only in his shirt, legs stretched out, face stony. “Do what you will, princess.”

  There was no wound that she could see. There were instead two solid columns of flesh, ropy with muscles in spite of his long confinement, and dusted liberally with hair. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and met his gaze, faintly mocking. “Well? Where is it?”

  Simon could think of several replies to that, all ribald, but he held his tongue. Sweet Jesus, but he’d never been in quite this situation before. True enough it was that there were many ladies who’d been glad when he’d shed his breeches. Blythe was different. It wasn’t lust that motivated her, though why she wanted to help him, he didn’t know. He suspected, however, that behind her brisk tone and abrupt manner she was distinctly unnerved. She was, as he’d already guessed, as capable an actress as he’d ever seen.

  “In back,” he said finally, and twisted onto his side, hoping fervently that his shirt covered his backside, as well as other vital parts. Because, sweet Jesus, she was having an effect on him he hadn’t anticipated.

  “Hm.” Blythe frowned as she bent over. “It’s long, but not very deep.”

  “As deep as you want.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hm. Well, it’ll need cleaning. Did it bleed much?”

  “Like the devil. Are you going for water—bloody hell!” he hissed, as something cold and wet and fiery splashed on his leg. He twisted to look at her, kneeling, apparently unflappable as she put the stopper into a small dark bottle. “What in hell is that?”

  “A potion Mrs. Wicket sent me to obtain,” she said, setting the bottle down. “By the smell of it, it contains a good bit of alcohol.”

  “Bloody hell. Let me have a drink, then. Come on,” he said, when she hesitated. “I’ll need it for the pain.”

  “It might help, at that,” she conceded, handing him the bottle. “Please turn again. There. My father used to use whiskey to clean wounds,” she went on in an impersonal tone. “I don’t know why that works better than plain water, but it does. The wound shouldn’t suppurate.”

  “Small comfort,” he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle. The potion, whatever it was, was dark and bitter, but Blythe was right. It did contain a good bit of alcohol.

  “Indeed, when you’re on the road. Hm.”

  He twisted around again. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “What? Oh. I was just wondering if I should just take some stitches—”

  “No!” He jerked away. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Are you done?”

  “No, I’ll have to apply a bandage. I wish I had some comfrey to put on it, though. Turn your back, please.”

  “What?”

  “Turn your back.” She stared at him, her firm little chin outthrust, looking resolute and dauntless and far too pretty for his peace of mind. In the fading light, the streak in her hair shone molten silver. “Where do you expect I’ll find a bandage?”

  He turned away, grinning to himself at the sound of cloth tearing. “Why, princess, will you used your petticoat on me? I didn’t think you cared.”

  “I don’t,” she retorted, and he turned, in time to see her skirts settle to the ground again. Pity. He’d have liked to see her legs. “Will you sit still so I can bandage you?”

  “Is that your petticoat—well, Miss Marden,” he said, now the one to be amused, and saw color sweep into her face. “Red flannel?”

  “‘Tis practical,” she said, first placing a pad on the wound and then tying the piece of cloth around his leg, tighter than he thought necessary. “There, that should hold. You may get dressed now.”

  Simon scrambled for his breeches as she rose, turning away from him. Now that the ordeal was over, now that his leg had been attended to and he was safe—safe! —from hanging, his normal good humor was returning. Mrs. Wicket’s potion probably helped, he conceded. “You’re a fine nurse, princess.”

  “Yes, well.” She turned back, and though her face appeared composed, her gaze would not meet his. “The thing to watch for now is fever. Do you think you have one?”

  “I don’t know.” Painful though it was, he st
ood, hands on hips, grinning at her, hugely enjoying her discomfiture. “Mayhaps you should see for yourself?”

  The look she cast him was suspicious. He struggled to keep his face bland and innocent as she sidled up to him, placing her hand on his forehead. “A touch warm, but ‘tis to be expected,” she declared, snatching her hand away as if burned. “If it gets worse, you’ll need to brew tea from white yarrow.”

  “Princess, I wouldn’t know white yarrow from white pine.” He watched her as she straightened her mobcap, dusted down her skirts. “Mayhap I need more nursing.”

  She glanced briefly at him and turned away. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Wait!” The urgency in his voice surprised him and made her turn back toward him. “Where are you going?”

  She raised her shoulders and let out a long sigh, the very picture of long-suffering exasperation. He wondered if she realized how skilled an actress she was. “Home, of course, since you no longer hold me captive.”

  “There’s something you don’t realize, princess,” he said softly, and advanced upon her, until his hand was braced on a tree near her head.

  To Blythe’s credit, she didn’t shy away, but kept her gaze steady, though he saw her swallow before speaking. “What?”

  “‘Tis dark.” His voice was husky. “How do you plan to return to London?”

  “It’s not dark yet,” she protested, but, glancing around, she saw that the shadows had lengthened considerably. “‘Tis only because we’re in a wood.”

  “Mayhaps. Nevertheless, night is coming on.”

  His gaze was intent, but she forced herself to meet it. “Then I must go while I can. Or do you still keep me captive?”

  “No, princess. But I worry for your safety, walking through London alone at night.”

  That startled a laugh from her. “My safety! When you are the one who’s put me at risk? No.” She whirled around, freeing herself from that dark, penetrating gaze at last. “I’ll not stay. I’ll find an inn or some such—”

  “Looking as you do? And have you any money, princess?”

  “Some.” She put up her chin. “All I need do is tell them I was abducted—”

  “And that you bandaged my wound, helping me to escape. It isn’t that easy, princess.”